ADAPTATION
by Connie Willis

"Heap on more wood! 
The wind is chill; 
But let it whistle as it will, 
We'll keep our Christmas merry still."
- SIR  WALTER   SCOTT

Marley was dead: to begin with.
Dickens's story, A Christmas Carol, however, of which the aforementioned is the first sentence, is alive and well and available in any number of versions. In the books department of Harridge's, where I work, we have nineteen, including Mickey's Christmas Carol, The Muppet Christmas Carol, the Cuddly-Wuddlys' Christmas Carol, and one with photographs of dogs dressed as Scrooge and Mrs. Cratchit.
We also have an assortment of Christmas Carol cookbooks, advent calendars, jigsaw puzzles, and an audiotape on which Captain Picard of the American television series Star Trek: The Next Generation takes all the parts.
All of these are, of course, adaptations, shortened and altered and otherwise bowdlerized. No one reads the original, though we carry it, in paperback. In the two years I've worked here, we've only sold a single copy, and that to myself. I bought it last year to read to my daughter, Gemma, when I had her for Christmas, but then I did not have time to do so. My ex-wife, Margaret, came to pick her up early for a pantomime she and Robert were taking her to, and we only got as far as Marley's ghost.
Gemma knows the story, though, in spite of never having read it, and the names of all the characters, as does everyone. They are so well-known, in fact, that at the beginning of the season this year Harridge's management had suggested the staff dress in costume as Scrooge and Tiny Tim, to increase profits and "provide a seasonal atmosphere."
There was a general outcry at this, and the idea had been dropped. But on the morning of the twenty-second when I arrived at work, there was a figure in a floor-dragging black robe and a hood standing by the order desk with Mr. Voskins, who was smiling smugly.
"Good morning, Mr. Grey," Mr. Voskins said to me. "This is your new assistant," and I half-expected him to say, "Mr. Black," but instead he said pleasedly, "the Spirit of Christmas Future."
It is actually Christmas Yet to Come, but Mr. Voskins has not read the original either.
"How do you do?" I said, wondering if Mr. Voskins was going to demand that I wear a costume as well, and why he had hired someone just now. The books department had been shorthanded all of December.
"Mr. Grey will explain things to you," Mr. Voskins said to the spirit. "Harridge's has been able to arrange for an author autographing," he said to me, which explained this hiring three days before Christmas. No doubt the book's being autographed was yet another version of A Christmas Carol. "We will be holding it the day after tomorrow."
"On Christmas Eve?" I said. "At what time? I'd arranged to leave early on Christmas Eve."
"It will depend on the author's schedule," Mr. Voskins said. "He's an extremely busy man."
"My daughter's spending the evening with me," I explained. "It's the only time I'll have her." They would be at Robert's parents' in Surrey for the rest of Christmas week.
"I'm discussing the details with the author this morning," he said. "Oh, and your wife telephoned. She wants you to ring her back."
"Ex-wife," I corrected him, but he had already hurried off, leaving me with my new assistant.
"I'm Mr. Grey," I said, extending my hand.
The spirit silently extended a skinny hand for me to shake, and I remembered that the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come was mute, communicating solely by pointing.
"Have you worked in a books department before?" I asked.
He shook his hooded head. I hoped he didn't plan to stay in character while waiting on the customers, or perhaps that was the idea, and he was here for "seasonal atmosphere" only.
"What am I supposed to call you?" I said.
He extended a bony finger and pointed at the Wild West Christmas Carol, on the cover of which a black-hatted spirit stood, pointing at a tombstone with Scrooge's name on it.
"Spirit? Christmas? Yet to Come?" I said, thinking that an "atmospheric" assistant was worse than none at all.
But I was wrong. He proved to be very efficient, learning the cash register and the credit-card procedure with ease, and waiting on customers promptly. They seemed delighted when he extended his bony finger from his black sleeve and pointed at the books they'd asked for. By ten o'clock I felt confident enough to leave him in charge of the department while I went to the employee lounge to telephone Margaret.
The line was engaged. I intended to ring her up again at a quarter past, but we had a surge of shoppers, and although Christmas Yet to Come was extremely helpful, I couldn't get away again till nearly eleven. When I dialed Margaret's flat, there was no answer. I was almost glad. I wanted to know the time of the autographing before I spoke to her. We had already had two fights over the "visitation schedule," as Margaret calls it. I was originally to have had Gemma on Boxing Day as well as Christmas Eve, but Robert's parents had invited them up to Surrey for the entire week. We had compromised by my having Gemma on Christmas Eve and part of Christmas Day. Then last week Margaret had rung up to say Robert's parents especially wanted them there for church on Christmas morning as it was a family tradition that Robert read the Scripture. "You can have her all Christmas Eve day," Margaret had said. "I have to work."
"You could insist on having the day off," she'd said, letting her voice die away.
It is a trick she has of leaving a sentence unfinished but her meaning perfectly clear. She used it to excellent account during the divorce, claiming she had not said any of the things I accused her of, as in fact she had not, and though I only see her now when she brings Gemma, I still understand her perfectly.
"You could insist on having the day off," she meant now, "if you really cared about Gemma." And there is no answer to that, no way to make her understand that Christmas Eve is not a day a shopclerk can insist on taking off, to explain to her that it is different from being an accountant. No way to explain why I gave up being an accountant.
And no way to explain to her that I might need to change the schedule because of an autographing. I decided to wait to try again till I had spoken to Mr. Voskins.
He did not come back till after noon. "The autographing will take place from eleven to one," he said, handing us a stack of red-and-green flyers. "Hand these out to the customers," he said.
I read the top flyer, relieved that the autographing wouldn't cause a problem with Gemma. "A Special Signing of Sir Spencer Siddon's latest book," it read. "Making Money Hand Over Fist,"
"It's on the bestseller list," Mr. Voskins said happily. "We were very lucky to get him. His secretary will be here at half-past one to discuss the arrangements."
"We'll need more staff," I said. "The two of us can't possibly run an autographing and wait on customers at the same time."
"I'll try to hire someone," he said vaguely. "We'll discuss everything when Sir Spencer's secretary arrives."
"Shall I go to lunch now, then?" I said, "and let Mr. ..." I pointed at the spirit, "go second so I'll be back in time for the meeting?"
"No," he said. "I want you both here. Go now." He waved vaguely in our direction.
"Which?"
"Both of you. I'll get someone from the housewares department to cover your department. Be back by 1:00."
When our replacement came, I told the spirit, "You can go to lunch," stuck A Christmas Carol, which I'd been reading on my lunch and tea breaks, in my coat pocket, and went to telephone Margaret. The line was engaged again.
When I came out of the lounge, the spirit was standing there, waiting for me, and I realized he wouldn't know where to go for lunch. Since Harridge's had closed its employee dining room to increase profits, employees had half an hour to get to, partake of, and return from lunch. "I know of a place that's quick," I told him.
He nodded, and I led off through the crowded aisles, hoping he would keep up. I need not have had any fear-he kept pace with me easily, in spite of not saying, as I did, "Sorry," to dozens of shoppers blocking the way. By the time we'd reached the south door, he was even with me, and, before I could turn toward Cavendish Square, he'd moved ahead, his arm extended and his long, bony finger pointing toward Regent Street.
All the luncheon places in Regent Street are expensive and invariably crammed with shoppers resting their feet, and are a good ten minutes' walk away. We would have just enough time to walk there, not get waited on, and return empty-handed.
"I usually go to Wilson's," I said, "it's closer," but he continued to point commandingly and we had no time for arguing either. I followed him down the street, down a lane I hadn't known was there, and into a dismal-looking lunch counter called Mama Montoni's.
It wasn't crowded, at any rate, and the small tables looked comparatively clean, though the made sandwiches on top of the counter looked several days old.
At one of the tables was an enormous man with a full brown beard, and I saw why the spirit had brought me here. The man was dressed as the Spirit of Christmas Present, in a green robe edged with white fur, and a crown of holly.
"Come in! Come in!" he said, even though we were already in, and my companion glided over to him.
The enormous man shook his head and said, "No, he can't make it for lunch today," as if Christmas Yet to Come had spoken.
I wondered who the "he" they referred to was. The Spirit of Christmas Past, perhaps?
"Neither of us got anything, I'm afraid," the enormous man said to Yet to Come, sounding discouraged. "Most of the bank executives are on holiday. But the teller said the Adelphi is holding pantomime auditions this afternoon."
I wondered if the pantomime was A Christmas Carol, or if they had previously been in a production and were now trying to find employment that fit the costumes. It was a good costume. The holly crown had the requisite icicles, and the green robe was belted with a rusted scabbard, just as in the original. His chest was not bare, though, and neither were his feet. He had compromised with the weather by wearing sandals with thick socks and had fastened the open robe across his massive chest with a large green button.
I was still standing just inside the door. My companion turned and pointed at me, and the enormous man boomed out, "Come know me better, man," and beckoned me to the table.
I was going to say that I needed to order first, but the old woman behind the counter-Mama Montoni?-had disappeared into the back. I went over to the table. "How do you do?" I said. "I'm Edwin Grey."
"Delighted to meet you," the enormous man said heartily. "Sit down, sit down. My friend tells me you work together."
"Yes." I sat down. "At Harridge's."
"He tells me you are hiring additional staff in your department. Is that right?"
"Possibly," I said, wondering how Sir Spencer Siddon would feel at being confronted with half the characters from A Christmas Carol. Would he think he was meant to be Scrooge? "It would be only temporary, though. Just the three days till Christmas."
"Till Christmas," he said, and the old woman emerged from the back with a fistful of silverware and two plates of congealed-looking spaghetti.
"I'll have what they're having," I said, "and a paper cup of tea to take with me."
The old woman, who was clearly related to Yet to Come, didn't answer or even acknowledge that I'd spoken to her, but she disappeared into the back again.
"I didn't know this cafe was here," I said, so he wouldn't bring up the topic of job openings again.
"Excellent choice of books," he said, pointing at my Christmas Carol, which was protruding from my coat pocket.
"I should imagine it's your favorite," I said, laying it on the table, smiling.
He shook his shaggy brown head. "I prefer Mr. Dickens's Little Dorrit, so patient and cheerful in her imprisonment, and Trollope's Barchester Towers."
"Do you read a good deal?" I asked. It's rare to find anyone who reads the older authors, let alone Trollope.
He nodded. "I find it helps to pass the time," he said. "Especially at this time of year, 'When dark December glooms the day/ And takes our autumn joys away. When short and scant the sunbeam throws/ Upon the weary waste of snows/A cold and profitless regard . . .' Marmion. Sir Walter Scott."
"Fourth canto," I said, and he beamed at me.
"You are a reader, too?" he said eagerly.
"I find books a great comfort," I said, and he nodded.
"Tell me what you think of A Christmas Carol," he said.
"I think it has lasted all these years because people want to believe it could happen," I said.
"But you don't believe it?" he said. "You don't believe a man might hear the truth and be changed by it?"
"I think Scrooge seems quite easily reformed," I said, "compared with the Scrooges I have known."
Mama Montoni emerged from the back again, glaring, and slapped down a plate of lukewarm spaghetti and a crockery cup half full of tea.
"So you have read Marmion?" the Spirit of Christmas Present said. "Tell me, what did you think of the tale of Sir David Linde-sey?" and we launched into an eager discussion that lasted far too long. I would be late getting back for the meeting with Scrooge's secretary.
I stood up, and my assistant did, too. "We must be getting back," I said, pulling on my coat. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. ... ?"
He extended his huge hand. "I am the Spirit of Christmas Present."
I laughed. "Then you're missing your third. Where's Christmas Past?"
"In America," he said quite seriously, "where he has been much corrupted by nostalgia and commercial interests."
He saw me looking skeptically at his socks and sandals. "You do not see us at our best," he said. "I fear we have fallen on hard times."
Apparently. "I should think these would be good times, with any number of Scrooges you could reform."
"And so there are," he said, "but they are praised and rewarded for their greed, and much admired. And"-he looked sternly at me-"they do not believe in spirits. They lay their visions to Freud and hormonal imbalance, and their therapists tell them they should feel no guilt, and advise them to focus further on themselves."
"Yes, well," I said, "I must be getting back." I pointed at my assistant, not knowing whether Present would expect me to address him as the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come. "You can stay and talk to your friend if you wish," and made my escape, glad that at least I hadn't suggested he come speak to Mr. Voskins about being taken on, and wondering what Mr. Voskins would do when he found out he had hired a lunatic.
Mr. Voskins wasn't on the floor, and neither was the secretary. I looked at my watch, expecting it to be well past one, but it was only a quarter till. I rang up Margaret. The line was engaged.
My assistant was there when  I  got back, waiting on a customer, but there was still no sign of Mr. Voskins. He finally came up at two to tell us the secretary had phoned to change the schedule.
"Of the autographing?" I said anxiously. "No, of the meeting with us. His secretary won't be here till half-past."
I took advantage of the delay to try Margaret again. And got Gemma.
"Mummy's downstairs talking to the doorman about our being gone," she told me.
"Do you know what she wanted to speak to me about?" I asked her.
"No . . . o," she said, thinking, and added, with a child's irrelevance, "I went to the dentist. She'll be back up in a minute."
"I'll talk to you in the meantime, then," I said. "What shall we have to eat for Christmas Eve?" "Figs," she said promptly. "Figs?"
"Yes, and frosted cakes. Like the little princess and Ermengarde and Becky had at the feast. Well, actually, they didn't have it. Horrid Miss Minchin found out and took it all away from them. And red-currant wine. Only I suppose you won't let me have wine. But red-currant drink or red-currant juice. Red-currant something." "And figs," I said distastefully.
"Yes, and a red shawl for a tablecloth. I want it just like in the book."
"What book?" I said, teasing. "A Little Princess." "Which one is that?"
"You know. The one where the little princess is rich and then she loses her father and Miss Minchin makes her live in the garret and be a servant and the Indian gentleman feels sorry for her and sends her things. You know. It's my favorite book."
I do know, of course. It has been her favorite for two years now, displacing both Anne of Green Gables and Little Women in her affections. "It's because we're just alike," she'd told me when I asked her why she liked it so much.
"You both live in a garret," I'd said.
"No. But we're both tall for our age, and we both have black hair."
"Of course," I said now. "I forgot. What do you want for Christmas?"
"Not a doll. I'm too old for dolls," she said promptly, and then hesitated. "The little princess's father always gave her books for Christmas."
"Did he?"
Mr. Voskins appeared at my elbow, looking agitated.
"I'll be right there," I said, cupping my hand over the mouthpiece.
"It's nearly half-past," he said.
"I'll be right there." I promised Gemma I'd purchase figs and red-currant something, and told her to tell her mother I'd phoned, and went to meet the secretary, wondering if he'd look like Bob Cratchit. That would make the cast complete, except for the Spirit of Christmas Past, of course, who was in America.
The secretary wasn't there yet. At a quarter to three, Mr. Voskins informed us that the secretary had phoned to change the meeting time to four. I used the extra time to purchase Gemma's present, a copy of A Little Princess. She owns a paperback, which she has read a dozen times, but this was a reproduction of the original, with a dark blue cloth cover and colored plates. Gemma looked at it longingly every time she came to see me, and had given all sorts of not-very-veiled hints, like her "The little princess's father bought her books," just now.
I had Yet to Come ring the book up for me, and I put it with my coat and went back into the stockroom to get another copy so
Gemma wouldn't see it was gone when she came to the store the day after tomorrow, and guess.
When I came out with the copy, Mr. Voskins was there with Sir Spencer's secretary. I was wrong about the secretary's looking like Bob Cratchit. She was a smartly dressed young woman, with a short, sleek haircut, and a gold Rolex watch.
"Sir Spencer requires a straight-backed chair without arms, with a wood table seventy centimeters high, and two fountain pens with viridian ink. Where did you plan to have him sit?"
I showed her the table in the literature section. "Oh, this won't do at all," she said, looking at the books. "A photographer will be coming. These shelves will all have to be filled with copies of Making Money Hand Over Fist. Facing out. And the rest of them here," she said, pointing at the history shelves, "so that they're easily accessible from the queue. Who will be in charge of that?"
"He will," I said, pointing at Yet to Come.
"Single file," she said, looking at her notes. "Two books per person. New hardbacks only, no paperbacks and nothing previously owned."
"Do you want them to write the name they wish inscribed on a slip of paper," I said, "so they won't have to spell their names for him?"
She stared at me coldly. "Sir Spencer does not personalize books, he signs them. Sir Spencer prefers Armentieres water, not Perrier, and some light refreshments-water biscuits and dietetic cheese." She checked off items in her notebook. "We'll need an exit through which he can depart without being seen."
"A trapdoor?" I said, looking at Yet to Come, who seemed positively friendly by comparison.
She turned to Mr. Voskins. "How many staff do you have?"
"I'm hiring additional help," he said, "and we're getting in additional books from the publishers."
She snapped the notebook shut. "Sir Spencer will be here from eleven to one. You were very lucky to get him. Sir Spencer is very much in demand."
We spent the rest of the day bringing up books and scouring the basement and the furniture department for a table that would meet specifications. I had intended to shop for the ingredients for Gemma's feast after work, but instead I went from shop to shop looking for Armentieres water, which I found on the sixth try, and for red-currant juice, which I did not find. I bought a box of black-currant tea and hoped that would do.
It was nearly ten when I got home, but I phoned Margaret twice more. Both times the line was engaged.
Next morning I left Yet to Come in charge of the department and went down to the food hall to arrange for the dietetic cheese and water biscuits. When I got back, Margaret was there, asking Yet to Come where I was.
"I suppose it was your idea to have a shopclerk that's mute," Margaret said.
"What are you doing here?" I said. "Is Gemma here, too?" "Yes," Gemma said, coming up, smiling. "I needed to speak to you," Margaret said. "Gemma, go over to the children's department and see if you can find a hairbow to match your Christmas dress."
Gemma was looking at Yet to Come, who was pointing at the travel section. "Is that the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come?" she said. "From A Christmas Carol?" "Yes," I said. "The genuine article."
"Gemma," Margaret said. "Go find a hairbow. Burgundy, to match the dress Robert gave you." She sent her off, watching her till she was a good distance down the aisle, and then turned back to me. "It was obvious you weren't going to return my call." "I did," I said. "Didn't Gemma tell you I'd phoned?" "She told me you couldn't wait even a few moments till I returned, that you were too busy."
Gemma told her no such thing, of course. "What did you want to speak to me about?" I said.
"Your daughter's welfare." She looked pointedly at the boxes of books. "Or are you too busy for that, as well?"
There are times when it is hard for me to imagine that I ever loved Margaret. I know rationally that I did, that when she told me she wanted a divorce it was like a blade going through me, but I cannot call up the feeling, or remember what it was about her that I loved.
I said ploddingly, "What about her welfare?" "She needs a brace. The dentist says she has an overbite and that it needs to be corrected. It will be expensive," she said, and let her voice die away.
Too expensive for a shopclerk, she means. An accountant could have afforded it.
There is no answer to that, even if she had actually said it. She believes I quit my job as an accountant out of spite, to keep her from collecting a large amount of child support, and there is nothing I could say that would convince her otherwise. Certainly not the truth, which is that having lost her, having lost Gemma, I could not bear to do without books as well.
"Robert has offered to pay for the brace," she said, "which I think is very generous of him, but he was afraid you might object. Do you?"
"No," I said, wishing I could say, "I want to pay for the brace," but, as she had not said, a shopclerk doesn't earn enough to pay for it. "I don't have any objections."
"I told him you wouldn't care," she said. "It's become increasingly clear over the past two years that you don't care about Gemma at all."
"And it's becoming increasingly clear," I said, raising my voice, "that you are systematically attempting to take my daughter away from me. You can't even stand to let me see her on Christmas!" I shouted, and saw Gemma.
She was over in the literature section, standing with her back to the shelves. She was holding the copy of A Little Princess, and she had obviously come back to see if it was still there, to see if I'd bought it yet.
And heard her parents trying to tear her in two. She huddled back against the shelves, looking small and hunted, clutching the book.
"Gemma," I said, and Margaret turned and saw her.
"Did you find a burgundy hairbow?" she said.
"No," Gemma said.
"Well, come along. We have shopping to do."
Gemma put the book back carefully, and started toward us.
"I'll see you tomorrow night," I said, trying to smile. "I found some black-currant tea for our feast."
She said solemnly, "Did you get the figs?"
"Come along, Gemma," Margaret said. "Tell your father goodbye."
"Goodbye," she said, and smiled tentatively at me.
"I'll get the figs," I promised.
Which was easier said than done. Harridge's food hall didn't have them, either canned or fresh, and neither did the grocer's down the street. There wasn't time to walk to the market and back on my lunch break. I would have to go after work.
And I didn't want to go to Mama Montoni's. I didn't want Christmas Present making more inquiries about whether we were hiring additional staff. And I didn't feel like talking to anyone, sane or not. I ducked down the alley to Wilson's, intending to get a bacon sandwich to take.
The Spirit of Christmas Present was there, sitting at one of the tiny tables, reading Making Money Hand Over Fist. He looked up when I came in and motioned me eagerly over to the table.
"I am supposed to meet Jacob Marley here," he said, waving me over. "Come, we'll discuss Ivanhoe and The Mystery of Edwin Drood." He pulled a chair out for me. "I have always wondered if Edwin were truly dead, or if he could be brought to life again."
I sat down and picked up Making Money Hand Over Fist. "I thought you kept to the older authors."
"Research," he said, taking the book back. "Jacob has high hopes of a job for us. He went to the Old Bailey this morning to speak with a barrister."
"Who specializes in divorce, no doubt," I said. "Or did he go to speak to the barrister about getting his sentence reduced?" "About repentance," he said.
I laughed humorlessly. "You really believe you're the incarnation of Dickens's spirits." "Not Dickens's," he said.
"That you're really Christmas Present and my assistant is Christmas Yet to Come? Is that why he never speaks? Because the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come in Dickens's story is mute?"
"He can speak," he said, quite seriously. "But he does not like to. Many find the sound of his voice distressing."
"And you believe your job is to reform misers and spread Christmas cheer?" I swung my arm wide. "Then why don't you do something?" I said bitterly. "Use your magic powers. Help the needy. House the homeless. Reunite fathers with their children." "We have no such powers. A little skill with locks, some minor dexterity with time. We cannot change what is, or was. Our power is only to rebuke and to remind, to instruct and to forewarn." "Like books," I said. "Which no one reads anymore." "Your daughter."
"My daughter," I said, and brightened. "Do you know where I can find figs?"
"Tinned or fresh?"
"Either," I said.
"Fortnum and Mason's," he said, and as soon as I stood up, went back to reading Sir Spencer's book. There was not time to go to Fortnum's, though when I got back to Harridge's and looked at my watch, I had nearly ten minutes of my lunch break left.
Mr. Voskins was waiting for me.
"Sir Spencer's secretary phoned. Sir Spencer can't be here till half-past one." He handed me a stack of revised flyers. "The autographing will be from half-past one to half-past three."
I looked at the flyers, dismayed.
"It was the only free time in his schedule," he said defensively. "We're lucky he can fit us in at all."
I thought of the cleaning up afterward. "I'll need to leave by four," I said. "My daughter's coming for Christmas Eve."
It was a long afternoon. Yet to Come took the books down from the literature shelves and put up Sir Spencer's books, facing out, bright green volumes with a hundred-pound note design and gold lettering. I taped up flyers and dealt with customers who had gotten a gift they had not expected and who now had, grudgingly, to return the favor, "And nothing over two pounds." I gave them credit-card receipts and flyers, thinking, Only one more day till I have Gemma.
After work I went to Fortnum's, which had both fresh and tinned figs. I bought them both, and frosted cakes, and chocolates, which I intended to tell her the Indian gentleman had sent.
When I got home I rooted out an old red wool scarf to use as a tablecloth, and tidied up the flat. Only one more day.
Which day came at last, and with it a new flyer (half-past one to half-past three) and the Spirit of Christmas Present. "What are you doing here?" I said.
"We have found employment," he said, beaming.
"We?" I said, looking around for Marley. I didn't see anyone who looked the part, and Present was already piling copies of Sir Spencer's book on the display tables.
"What sort of employment?" I said suspiciously. "You're not planning some sort of demonstration against Sir Spencer, are you?"
"I'm your new assistant," he said, stacking books on the floor by the order desk. "I'm supposed to pass out numbers for queue-ing up."
"I can't imagine that many people will come," I said, but by ten o'clock there were twenty people clutching their numbered chits.
I sold them copies of Making Money Hand Over Fist and explained why Sir Spencer wouldn't be there at eleven as advertised. "He's a very busy man," I said. "We're lucky he was able to fit us in at all."
Mr. Voskins came up at eleven to tell us we would have to forgo lunch, which was patently obvious. The department was filled with milling people, Yet to Come had had to go down to the basement for more books, and Present was writing numbers on more chits.
By noon the queue had begun to form according to the numbers and was halfway down the aisle.
"You'd best go get more books," I told Yet to Come, and turned round to find Margaret standing there.
"What are you doing here?" I said blankly. "Where's Gemma?"
"She's up on fifth, looking at dolls," she said.
"I thought she didn't want a doll."
"She said she just wanted to look at them," she said. Yes, I thought, and hide a safe two floors away from her parents' fighting.
"Christmas Eve won't work," Margaret said.
"What?" I said blankly, though I knew already what she meant, felt it like a blade going in.
"We need to take an earlier train. Robert's parents are having a friend of theirs down who's an orthodontist, and he's agreed to look at Gemma's overbite, but he's only going to be there for Christmas Eve."
"I'm to have Gemma Christmas Eve," I said stupidly.
"I know. That's why I came, so we can rework the schedule. We're coming back the day after New Year's. You can have her then."
"Why can't she see the orthodontist after New Year's?"
"He's a very busy man. Ordinarily Gemma would have to be put on a waiting list, but he's agreed to see her as a special favor. I think we should be very grateful he was able to fit us in at all."
"I have to work inventory the day after New Year's," I said.
"Of course," she said, and let her voice die away. "The next weekend, then. Whenever you like."
And the next weekend she will have to be fitted for the brace, I thought, and the following one it will have to be tightened or she will have to have bands put on. "I was counting on Gemma's being with me Christmas Eve. Can't you take a later train?" I said, though I already knew it was hopeless, knew I was standing against the bookcase the way Gemma had, looking hunted.
"The only trains are at four and half-past ten. The late one doesn't get in till one o'clock. You can hardly expect Robert to ask his parents and the orthodontist to wait up for us. I really do think you could be a bit more accommodating. . . ."
"Mr. Grey, we're out of chits," Mr. Voskins said. "And I need to speak to you about the queue."
"We'll come back a day early, and you can have Gemma for New Year's," she said.
"It's nearly to the end of the aisle," Mr. Voskins said. "Should we loop it round?"
Margaret started toward the jammed aisle. "Wait," I said, "I have Gemma's present at home. Just a moment."
I hurried over to the literature shelves and then remembered those books had been moved over under Travel. I knelt and looked for the other copy of A Little Princess. It wasn't wrapped, but she would at least have it for Christmas.
It wasn't there. I looked through the B's twice, and then ran a finger along the backs, looking for the dark-blue cover. It wasn't there. I checked Children's, thinking Yet to Come might have put it there, but it wasn't, and when I stood up from checking Literature again, Margaret was gone.
"I've made it a double queue," Mr. Voskins said. "This is going to be a great success, isn't it? Mr. Grey?"
"A great success," I said, and went to write more numbers on slips of paper.
Sir Spencer arrived at a quarter till two in a Savile Row suit. He settled himself in the straight-backed chair, looked disdainfully at the table and the queue, and uncapped one of the fountain pens.
He began to sign the books that were placed before him, and to dispense wisdom to the admiring queue.
"Christmas is an excellent time to think about your future," he said, scrawling a squiggle that might have been an S followed by a long, uneven line. "And an excellent time to plan your financial strategy for the new year."
Four persons back in the queue was someone who could only be meant to be Marley, an old-fashioned coat and trousers draped with heavy chains and a good deal of gray-green greasepaint. He had a kerchief tied round his head and jaw and was clutching a copy of Making Money Hand Over Fist.
"They're actually going to try to reform him," I thought, and wondered what Sir Spencer would say.
Marley moved to the front of the queue and laid his open book down on the table. "In life . . ." he said, and it was a curious voice, brittle, dry, a voice that sounded as if it had died away once and for all.
"In life I was Jacob Marley," he said, in that faint dead voice, and shook his chain with a gray-green hand, but Sir Spencer was already handing his book back to him and was reaching for the next.
"There are those who say that money isn't everything," Sir Spencer said to the crowd. "It isn't. Money is the only thing."
The queue applauded.
At half-past two, Sir Spencer stopped to flex the fingers of his writing hand and drink his Armentieres water. He consulted, whispering, with his secretary, looked at his watch, and took another sip.
I went over to the order desk to get another bottle, and when I came back I nearly collided with the Spirit of Christmas Present. He was carrying a huge plum pudding with a sprig of holly on top.
"What are you doing?" I said.
"Christmas is an excellent time to think about your future," he said, winking, and started toward the table, but the sleek secretary interposed herself between him and Sir Spencer.
He tried to give the plum pudding to her, still laughing, but she handed it back. "I specifically requested light refreshments," she said sharply, and went back over to Sir Spencer, looking at her watch.
Present followed her. "Come, know me better," he said to her, but she was consulting with Sir Spencer again, and they were both looking at their watches.
She came over to me. "The queue needs to move along more quickly," she said. "Tell them to have their books open to the title page."
I did, working my way back along the queue. There was a sudden silence, and I looked back at the table. Yet to Come had glided in front of a middle-aged woman at the front of the queue, and she had stepped back, clutching her book to her wide bosom.
He's going to do it, I thought, and almost wished he could. It would be nice to see something good happen.
Sir Spencer reached his hand out for the book, and Yet to Come drew himself up and pointed his finger at him, and it was not a finger, but the bones of a skeleton.
I thought, he's going to speak, and knew what the voice would sound like. It was the voice of Margaret, telling me she wanted a divorce, telling me they had to take an earlier train. The voice of doom.
I drew in my breath, afraid to hear it, and the secretary leaned forward. "Sir Spencer does not sign body parts," she said sternly. "If you do not have a book, please step aside."
And that was that. Sir Spencer signed newly purchased hardbacks until a quarter of three and then stood up in midscrawl and went out the previously arranged back way.
"He didn't finish," the young girl whose book he had been in the midst of signing said plaintively, and I took the book and the pen and started after him, though without much hope.
I caught him at the door. "There are still people in the queue who haven't had their books signed," I said, holding out the book and pen, but the secretary had interposed herself between us.
"Sir Spencer will be signing on the second at Hatchard's," she said. "Tell them they can try again there."
"It's Christmas," I said, and took hold of his sleeve.
He looked pointedly at it.
"You'll miss your plane to Majorca," the secretary said, and he pulled his sleeve free and swept away, looking at his watch.
"Late," I heard the secretary say.
I was still holding the pen and the open book, with its half-
finished S. I took it back to the girl. "If you'd like to leave it, I'll try to get it signed for you. Was it a Christmas present?"
"Yes, for my father," she said, "but I won't see him till after Christmas, so that's all right."
I took her name and telephone number, set the books on the order desk, and began taking down the posters.
I had thought perhaps Yet to Come would have disappeared after his failure with Sir Spencer like the others had, but he was still there, putting books into boxes.
He seemed somehow more silent-which was impossible, he had never spoken a word-and downcast, which was ridiculous, as well. The Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come was supposed to be dreadful, terrifying, but he seemed to have shrunk into himself. Like Gemma, shrinking against the shelves.
It's Sir Spencer that's terrifying, I thought, and his secretary. And her gold Rolex watch. "Scrooges are praised and much rewarded for their greed," Present had said, and so they were, with Savile Row suits and knighthoods and Majorca. No wonder the Spirits had fallen on hard times.
"At least you tried," I said. "There are some battles that are lost before they're begun."
Children's came over to buy a gift. "For Housewares. I told her I didn't believe in exchanging with colleagues," she said irritably, "but she's bought me something anyway. And I'd planned on leaving early. I suppose you are, too, so you can spend the evening with your little girl."
I looked at my watch. It was after three. They would be leaving for the station soon, and Robert's parents, and the orthodontist.
I cleared away the refreshments. I put foil over the plum pudding and set it next to the girl's book, which I had no hope of getting signed, and went back to help Yet to Come take Making Money Hand, Over Fist down from the shelves, trying not to think about Gemma and Christmas Eve.
The spirit stopped suddenly and drew himself up and pointed, the robe falling away from his bony hand. I turned, afraid of more bad news, and there was Gemma in the aisle, working her way toward us.
She was pushing steadily upstream through shoppers who all seemed to be going in the opposite direction, ducking between shopping bags with a determined expression on her narrow face.
"Gemma!" I said, and pulled her safely out of the aisle. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to tell you goodbye and that I'm sorry I can't come for Christmas Eve."
I raised my head and tried to see down the aisle. "Where's your mother? You didn't come here alone, did you?"
"Mummy's up on fifth," she said. "With the dolls. I told her I'd changed my mind about wanting one. A bride doll. With green eyes." She looked pleased with herself, as well she might. It was no small accomplishment to have gotten Margaret back here half an hour before they were to meet Robert at the station, and she would never have agreed if she'd known why Gemma wanted to come. I could imagine her arguments-there isn't time, you'll see him the day after New Year's, we can't inconvenience Robert, who after all is paying for your brace-and so could Gemma, apparently, and had sidestepped them neatly.
"Did you tell her you were coming down to third?" I said, trying to look disapproving.
"She told me to go look at games so I wouldn't see her buying the doll," she said. "I wanted to tell you I'd rather be with you Christmas Eve."
I love you, I thought.
"I think when I do come," she said seriously, "that we should pretend that it is Christmas Eve, like the little princess and Reeky."
"They pretended it was Christmas Eve?"
"No. When the little princess was cold or hungry or sad she pretended her garret was the Bastille."
"The Bastille," I said thoughtfully. "I don't think they had figs in the Bastille."
"No." She laughed. "The little princess pretended all sorts of things. When she couldn't have what she wanted. So I think we should pretend it's Christmas Eve, and wear paper hats and light the tree and say things like, 'It's nearly Christmas,' and 'Oh, listen, the Christmas bells are chiming.'"
"And 'Pass the figs, please,'" I said.
"This is serious," she said. "We'll be together next Christmas, but till then we'll have to -pretend." She paused, and looked solemn. "I'm going to have a good time in Surrey," she said, and her voice died away uncertainly.
"Of course you'll have a good time," I said heartily. "You'll get huge heaps of presents, and eat lots of goose. And figs. I hear in Surrey they use figs for stuffing." I hugged her to me.
A thin gray woman with rather the look of Miss Minchin came up. "Pardon me, do you work here?" she said disapprovingly.
"I'll be with you in just a moment," I said.
Yet to Come hurried up, but the woman waved him away. "I'm looking for a book," she said.
I said to Gemma, "You'd best get back before your mother finishes buying the doll and misses you."
"She won't. The bride dolls are all sold. I asked when I was here before." She smiled, her eyes crinkling. "She'll have to send them to check the stockroom," she said airily, looking just like her mother, and I remembered suddenly what I had loved about Margaret-her cleverness and the innocent pleasure she took in it, her resourcefulness. Her smile. And it was like being given a boon, a Christmas gift I hadn't known I wanted.
"I'm looking for a book," Miss Minchin repeated. "I saw it in here several weeks ago."
"I'd better go," Gemma said.
"Yes," I said, "and tell your mother you don't want the doll before she turns the stockroom inside out."
"I do want it, though," she said. "The little princess had a doll," and again that trailing away, as if she had left something unsaid.
"I thought you said all of them had been sold."
"They have," she said, "but there's one in the window display, and you know Mummy. She'll make them give it to her."
"Pardon me," Miss Minchin said insistently. "It was a green book, green and gold."
"I'd better go," Gemma said again.
"Yes," I said regretfully.
"Goodbye," she said, and plunged into the crush of shoppers, which now was going the other way.
"Hardback," Miss Minchin said. "It was right here on this shelf."
Gemma stopped halfway down the aisle, shoppers milling about her, and looked back at me. "You'd better eat the frosted cakes so they won't grow stale. I'm going to have a good time," she said, more firmly, and was swallowed by the crowd.
"It had gold lettering," Miss Minchin said. "It was by an earl, I think."
The book Miss Minchin wanted, after a protracted search, was Sir Spencer's Making Money Hand Over Fist. Of course.
"What a sweet little girl you have," she said as I rang up the sale, all friendliness now that she had gotten what she wanted. "You're very lucky."
"Yes," I said, though I did not feel lucky.
I looked at my watch. Five past four. Gemma had already taken the train to Surrey, and I would not see her sweet face again this year, and even if I stayed after closing and put everything back as it had been, there were still all the hours of Christmas Eve to be gotten through. And the day after. And all the days after.
And the rest of the afternoon, and all the shoppers who had left their shopping till too late, who were cross and tired and angry that we had no more copies of The Outer Space Christmas Carol, and who had counted on our giftwrapping their purchases.
And Mr. Voskins, who came up to say disapprovingly that he had been very disappointed in the sales from the autographing, and that he wanted the shelves back in order.
In between, Yet to Come and I folded chairs and carried boxes of Sir S's books to the basement.
It grew dark outside, and the crush of shoppers subsided to a trickle. When Yet to Come came over to me with his bony hands full of a box of books, I said, "You needn't come back up again," and didn't even have the heart to wish him a happy Christmas.
The trickle of shoppers subsided to two desperate-looking young men. I sold them scented journals and started taking Sir S's books off the literature shelves and putting them in boxes.
On the second shelf from the top, wedged in behind Making Money Hand Over Fist, I found the other copy of A Little Princess.
And that seemed somehow the final blow. Not that it had been here all along-there was no real difference between its not being there and my not being able to find it, and Gemma would love it as much when I gave it to her next week as she would have Christmas morning-but that Sir Spencer Siddon, Sir Scrawl of the new hardbacks only and the Armentieres water, Sir Scrooge and his damnable secretary who had not even recognized the Spirits of Christmas, let alone heeded them, who had no desire to keep Christmas, had cost Gemma hers.
"Hard times," I said, and sank down in the wing chair. "I have fallen on hard times." After a while I opened the book and turned the pages, looking at the colored plates. The little princess and her father in her carriage. The little princess and her father at the school. The little princess and her father.
The birthday party. The little princess huddled against a wall, her doll clutched to her, looking hunted.
"The little princess had a doll," she'd said, and meant, "to help her through hard times."
The way the little princess's doll had helped her when she lost her father. The way the book had helped Gemma.
"I find books a great comfort," I had told the Spirit of Christmas Present. And so had Gemma, who had lost her father.
"I'm going to have a good time in Surrey," she had said, her voice trailing off, and I could finish that sentence, too. "In spite of everything."
Not a hope, but a determination to try to be happy in spite of circumstance, as the little princess had tried to be happy in her chilly garret. "I'm going to have a good time," she'd said again, turning at the last minute, and it was rebuke and reminder and instruction, all at once. And comfort.
I stood a moment, looking at the book, and then closed it and put it carefully back on the shelf, the way Gemma had.
I went over to the order desk and picked up the plum pudding. The book the girl had left for Sir Spencer to finish signing was under it. I opened it and took out the paper with her name and address on it.
Martha. I found the fountain pen, with its viridian ink, uncapped it and drew a scrawl that looked a little like Sir Spencer's. "To Martha's father," I wrote above it. "Money isn't everything!" And I went to find the spirits.
If they could be found. If they had not, after all, found other employment with the barrister or the banker, or taken a plane to Majorca, or gone up to Surrey.
Mama Montoni's had a large Closed sign hanging inside the door, and the light above the counter was switched off, but when I tried the door it wasn't locked. I opened it, carefully, so the buzzer wouldn't sound, and leaned in. Mama Montoni must have switched off the heat as well. It was icy inside.
They were sitting at the table in the corner, hunched forward over it as if they were cold. Yet to Come had his hands up inside his sleeves, and Present kept tugging at his button as if to pull the green robe closer. He was reading to them from A Christmas Carol.
"You will be haunted," resumed the Ghost of Marley, "by three spirits," '" Present read. "' "Is this the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob?" he demanded in a faltering voice. "It is." "I-I think I'd rather not," said Scrooge. "Without their visits," said the Ghost, "you cannot hope to shun the path I tread."
I banged the door open and strode in. " 'Come, dine with me, uncle,'" I said.
They all turned to look at me.
"We are past that place," Marley said. "Scrooge's nephew has already gone home, and so has Scrooge."
"We are at the place where Scrooge is being visited by Mar-ley," Present said, pulling out a chair. "Will you join us?"
"No," I said. "You are at the place where you must visit me."
Mama Montoni came rushing out from the back. "I'm closed!" she growled. "It's Christmas Eve."
"It's Christmas Eve," I said, "and Mama Montoni's is closed, so you must dine with me."
They looked at each other. Mama Montoni snatched the Closed sign from the door and brandished it in my face. "I'm closedl"
"I can't offer much. Figs. I have figs. And frosted cakes. And Sir Walter Scott. ' 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale, 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale.' "
" 'A Christmas gambol oft could cheer the poor man's heart through half the year,' " Present murmured, but none of them moved. Mama Montoni started for the phone, to dial 999, no doubt.
"No one should be alone on Christmas Eve," I said.
They looked at each other again, and then Yet to Come stood up and glided over to me.
"The time grows short," I said, and Yet to Come extended his finger and pointed at them. Marley stood up, and then Present, closing his book gently.
Mama Montoni herded us out the door, looking daggers. I pulled A Christmas Carol out of my pocket and handed it to her. "Excellent book," I said. "Instructive."
She banged the door shut behind us and locked it. "Merry Christmas," I said to her through the door, and led the way home, though before we had reached the tube station, Yet to Come was ahead, his finger pointing the way to the train, and my street, and my flat.
"We've black-currant tea," I said, going into the kitchen to put on the kettle. "And figs. Please, make yourselves at home. Present, the Dickens is in that bookcase, top shelf, and the Scott's just under it."
I set out sugar and milk and the frosted cakes I'd bought for Gemma. I took the foil off the plum pudding. "Courtesy of Sir Spencer Siddon, who, unfortunately, remains a miser," I said, setting it on the table. "I'm sorry you failed to find someone to reform."
"We have had some small success," Present said from the bookcase, and Marley smiled slyly.
"Who?" I said. "Not Mama Montoni?"
The kettle whistled. I poured the boiling water over the tea and brought the teapot in. "Come, come, sit down. Present, bring your book with you. You can read to us while the tea steeps." I pulled out a chair for him. "But first you must tell me about this person you reformed."
Marley and Yet to Come looked at each other as if they shared a secret, and both of them looked at Christmas Present.
"You have read Scott's 'Marmion,' have you not?" he said, and I knew that, whoever it was, they weren't going to tell me. One of the people in the queue, perhaps? Or Harridge?
"I always think 'Marmion' an excellent poem for Christmas," Present said, and opened the book.
" 'And well our Christian sires of old,' " he read," 'loved when the year its course had roll'd, and brought blithe Christmas back again, with all his hospitable train.'"
I poured out the tea.
" The wassail round, in good brown bowls,' " he read, " 'garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.'" He put down the book and raised his teacup in a toast. "To Sir Walter Scott, who knew how to keep Christmas!"
"And to Mr. Dickens," Marley said, "the founder of the feast."
"To books!" I said, thinking of Gemma and A Little Princess, "which instruct and sustain us through hard times,"
" 'Heap on more wood!'" Present said, taking up his book again, " 'The wind is chill; but let it whistle as it will, we'll keep our Christmas merry still.' "
I poured out more tea, and we ate the frosted cakes and Gemma's figs and half a meat pie I found in the back of the refrigerator, and Present read us "Lochinvar," with sound effects.
As I was bringing in the second pot of tea, the clock began to strike, and outside, church bells began to ring. I looked at the clock. It was, impossibly, midnight.
"Christmas already!" Present said jovially. "Here's to evenings with friends that fly too fast."
"And the friends who make it fly," I said.
"To small successes," Marley said, and raised his cup to me.
I looked at Christmas Present, and then at Yet to Come, whose face I still could not see, and then back at Marley. He smiled slyly.
"Come, come," Present said into the silence. "We have not had a toast from Christmas Yet to Come."
"Yes, yes," Marley said, clanking his chains excitedly. "Speak, Spirit."
Yet to Come took hold of his teacup handle with his bony fingers and raised his cup.
I held my breath.
"To Christmas," he said, and why had I ever feared that voice? It was clear and childlike. Like Gemma's voice, saying, "We'll be together next Christmas."
"To Christmas," the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come said, his voice growing stronger with each word, "God bless us Every One.".